I have a dream.

A secret dream, I guess. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Which maybe isn’t so secret if you are reading my blog right now. Growing up, I actually planned on being a journalist or a novelist, or maybe a screen writer someday. I didn’t know what all that would entail, but thought it sounded romantic and really cool. Maybe I’d have a farmhouse somewhere and be really reclusive and my neighbors would all wonder who I was and how I could afford to live out in the country yet never plow a single field, or maybe I would do investigative journalism and would uncover a huge scandal and become world famous, always having to wear different disguises so people wouldn’t know it was me and blow my cover. I worked for a college newspaper, did a few interviews, wrote a few stories, got paid a lavish seven dollars an article. I liked it. Quite a lot, actually. I was on the journalism track at school, but got derailed when I realized that, as usual, I had missed the boat.

I had missed the deadline, to sign up for the test, that would qualify me to take the prerequisite, that I had to get under my belt, in order to take the real journalism classes. That was like twelve steps too many in my short-wired brain that at the time went: boyfriend-friends-boyfriend. I was a pretty inattentive college student, so even if that information had been plastered all over the halls of the school, I probably wouldn’t have noticed (remember: boyfriend-friends-boyfriend, repeat.) I got along alright in my classes, but paid attention to little else. At the beginning of each semester I did a frantic last minute scramble to figure out what classes I needed to take, and how I would get into them, seeing as though they were completely full. Most of the classes I took involved an override waiver from the professor. I was never sure how classes got so full. Weren’t other students waiting three days before the start of classes to register, too?

It took me a long time to get my shit together (some would argue that I should use a different verb tense here).

To bide my time until the next exam date, I took a few Environmental Studies classes. And then a few more. God, I loved this stuff. By the time the next test was up for my journalism track, I was completely consumed with the Clean Air Act and learning about PCBs. Finally I changed my major and found myself with a degree in Environmental Studies. I found a job, and then another, always secretly hoping that I could find a way to write, somehow marrying my love for the craft with my passion for the environment. For years I have been somewhat satiated. Grant proposals, direct mail letters, newsletters and reports have kept me going.

And now? I don’t know what.

The offices of the Onion are directly below mine. Every morning I climb the stairs and see their door, stenciled with the green Onion logo, and I feel a pang of… what? Envy? Longing? Resentment? I want to go inside, thrust out my hand and boldly say, “Hi, I’m Melissa Gavin, and I’d really like to work for you.” Or maybe something more dramatic, like, “Hi I’m Melissa Gavin and I’d give my left arm to write for you.” No, it’d have to be something funny. “Hi, I’m Melissa Gavin and…” Huh. I’ve got nothing. Which is a problem if I want to work for the funniest mock-newspaper in the country. Anyway, this soundtrack plays in my head until I reach my office. At which point I immerse myself in writing newsletter articles about new accounting standards and other things too boring to mention.

And then slowly my thoughts drift back to the Onion. They’re not hiring… are they? I don’t have the right stuff. They’d never hire me. I couldn’t be funny all the time. I like what I do… most of the time.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh. Shit. I just went to get more coffee and before I could stop myself I went downstairs, to do what I would advise any of my good friends to do. With trembling hands I opened the door to the Onion. Nobody was in the reception area. I leafed through their latest edition. I waited for a woman to get off the phone. I pretended to be really, really interested in their artwork. I felt my heart pound in my throat. I felt like a jackass. What the hell am I doing here? Will they call security? Wait this is Madison. We don't have security.

I coolly walked down to where one of the writers was typing out (no doubt hilarious) stuff on his trendy Mac in his trendy office.

And I said, “Hi, my name is Melissa Gavin, and I’ve always wanted to work for the Onion. You guys aren’t hiring are you?”

Breathe. I can’t believe I just did that. Jackass. God, I am such a jackass.

He looked surprised, and then said, “Actually, we are always looking for freelancers.” Breathe. Act natural. “You… are?” Breathe. Act… natural. Wipe sweaty palms on pants. Breathe. “Cool.” I say. Jackass. God, I am such a jackass.

We chatted a bit, he gave me his card. “Do you write for a living?” He asked. Well, no. I said. And then “Well, yeah, I guess. More serious stuff, newsletter articles and things. And I have a blog. But, I don’t know if it’s Onion caliber.” I heard myself saying. Jackass. I am such a jackass. They won’t hire me now, for sure.

Send me a few pitches, he said.

Breathe. A few pitches. I can do this. I can do this… shit. Can I do this? Maybe I’ll give it a go when my hands stop trembling.